


The Old-Fashioned Way

by colonel_bastard



Series: Lodestar [3]
Category: Treasure Planet (2002)
Genre: Blood, Dominance, Fist Fights, Injury, Loss, M/M, Pain, Regret, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 02:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3919660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/pseuds/colonel_bastard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Why didn't you take the shot, John?"</i>
</p><p>In the moments after the longboat escapes, Silver is left with a mutinous crew and an accusation that he's gone soft.  He'll only have one chance to prove otherwise, and that's going to cost blood.  Scroop is all too eager to oblige.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Old-Fashioned Way

**Author's Note:**

> Got an anon request for Silver to prove to the crew that he hasn't gone soft, and it just so happened to tap into my primal desire to see Silver go total beast mode and beat the crap out of somebody. 
> 
> A few notes on Silver's cybernetic leg: I think it's very clear that the damage to it is extremely painful, especially during the mutiny sequence. I'm thinking especially of when he's crawling to grab the map out of the rope pile— he gasps and grabs on to it when it takes any kind of pressure. So in that regard, I really wanted to write about what it might be like to get into fight while dealing with such an injury. I broke my ankle recently and I've never felt any kind of pain like what I experienced when I had to walk the short distance to get to my car— that was a big inspiration for this fic. 
> 
> A few notes on the timeline: I know the pirates are supposed to come down almost immediately after the crash, but let's just pretend everyone in the longboat was knocked unconscious for ten minutes or so when they landed. And I got my pirate death toll from how many characters disappear during the mutiny; including Mr. Snuff, who is never seen again.
> 
> Also this story makes constant references to my other fic [Lodestar,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/465273) which gets mentioned in all my fics because it's basically canon to me at this point. 
> 
> Music for this fight scene: [Fury Oh Fury](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L9AjsA-w48Y) by Nico Vega.

-

-

-

 _It’s a hit. They hit the longboat._

Silver sees the burst of flame and smoke that erupts halfway between him and the planet’s surface and feels his guts boil up into his throat in panic. He tries to get a closer look with his cybernetic eye but it’s too fast and too far and he can’t tell if the longboat has been blown to pieces or if there’s a chance its passengers made it safely down to the planet below. 

_Jim._

He tried to stop it, he really did. He’s still not sure how he even managed to race full tilt up to the main deck with his leg the way it is; fear and adrenaline made him fast, but not fast enough to turn the cannon. There’s nothing he can do now. Heart going like a hammer, he reaches blindly for Morph, desperate for a fragment of comfort— but the little shapeshifter is nowhere to be seen, and Silver’s fingers curl around the empty air. 

A foolish young voice inside of him laments: _it wasn’t supposed to be like this._

But the wiser, weary part of him remembers: _ah, ye daft old man, ye said it yerself: plans go astray._

“ _Silver!_ ”

He turns about to see his crew closing in on him. 

No, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be swift and successful, the Legacy’s hold already loaded with treasure and the captain and her supporters too sated by victory to be on the alert for any kind of trouble. That’s what they were promised. It wasn’t supposed to be this sloppy bloodbath, half a dozen of their number killed in the skirmish and nothing to show for it but an empty ship. They _certainly_ weren’t supposed to watch their treasure map go sailing away in the hands of their adversaries. 

At this point it would be safe to say that crew morale is at an all-time low.

“Why you pull cannon?” Grewnge bawls, lurching out of the gunner’s seat. “It was good shot!”

“He said they had the map!” Torrance answers, appalled. 

“Because they had the time,” Scroop hisses, advancing on Silver with a laser rifle in his claws. “I warned you the boy was trouble. Anyone could see it. Anyone but you.” 

Silver’s first instinct is to answer that advance with one of his own, but when he tries to take a forceful step forward it drives into his nervous system like a steel spike, the damage to his cybernetic leg registering as a thousand shattered synapses. Jim sank those clippers deep— the old hydraulic pump has lost its steam, the gears straining uselessly when his brain tells them to _move._ He clenches his jaw against the pain and grabs the starboard railing to steady his balance, squaring his shoulders and puffing out his chest to make up for his inability to gain ground. 

“And whose fault is it that he overheard us in the first place?” he bellows. “Did none of ye think to check the galley fer eavesdroppers? The whole lot of ‘em coulda been down there and you bloody halfwits woulda been none the wiser!”

Gods, why couldn’t it have been anyone else? Why couldn’t it have been the captain or even that idiot doctor? Why did it have to be Jim?

_...nose-wiping little whelp..._

Silver’s cybernetic hand goes so tight on the railing that the wood starts to splinter. 

Turnbuckle arrives on the main deck at last, shaking his head, a pistol in his grip. Silver relaxes by the smallest fraction; here’s the man that has served as his first mate for the past eight years. He’ll help bring things to order again. 

“Seven dead,” Turnbuckle announces. “Four belowdecks and three overboard.” 

“They got Mr. Hands!” Onus bleats in dismay. “He went right out the launch bay, splat!” 

“Longbourne and Fayvoon, too,” Hedley adds, clambering up to the safety of Torrance’s shoulders. “The rest were shot.” 

“The captain was warned,” Scroop reminds them all. “They were armed and ready for us.” 

“Ah, to hell with the captain’s warning!” Silver barks. “We took the ship, didn’t we?”

“We got the bleedin’ ship, all right,” Birdbrain Mary screeches. “But we ain’t got the bleedin’ map!” 

There’s an ominous rumble of agreement from the rest of the crew, then a chorus of shrill whines as laser pistols start to charge all around. Silver sets back his ear and grits his teeth. That’s the trouble with leading a crew into mutiny— once they’ve got a taste for it, betrayal comes easy. Ungrateful bastards. 

“Now you listen to me,” he snarls. “I got us to Treasure Planet, didn’t I? Ye think I’m gonna come this far and give up now?” He jabs a finger down towards the surface. “The map’s down there. All’s we have to do is go get it.” 

“Why didn’t you take the shot, John?” Turnbuckle demands.

The crew all turns to look at the first mate one by one, their expressions varying somewhere between confusion and suspicion. Turnbuckle ignores them all. He’s staring hard at his captain, his eyes narrowed. Silver stares back at him, refusing to let an inch of apprehension show on his face. 

“You had the cabin boy in your sights,” Turnbuckle asserts. “I know it. I’ve seen you hit a man in the back from fifty yards.”

If Silver closed his eyes he would see it all over again, Jim looking down at him with the map in his hand, their gazes locked for one gut-wrenching instant before the boy turned and bolted, running for his life. Instinct pulled the gun up into Silver’s hand and switched his eye into crosshairs— but that was Jim’s back he was aiming at, and all he could see was the space between the shoulderblades where his hand had fit so perfectly the night before, and all he could think about was how badly he wanted to hold him just one more time. 

“You didn’t shoot him?” Onus screeches, all six eyes bulging with outrage. 

It’s more than a rumble now, it’s a roar, the mutineers all raising their voices in protest and fury. Silver is aware that his back is against the railing, that he’s one wrong word away from going up and over. 

“What in blazes was I supposed to do?” he snaps defensively. “The lad was going pell-mell down a gangplank over an open bay! If I’d clipped him he’d have gone right over the edge, and the map woulda gone with him!”

“But he took the map anyway!” Turnbuckle spits back. “It would have been easy enough to find a dead man, John. You let him live!”

“He could be anywhere by now!” Torrance accuses. 

“Why you no take shot?” Grewnge howls. 

And then there’s Scroop, stretching himself up to his full height so that he towers over his would-be captain, his eyes like twin points of fire. 

“It’s like I said,” he growls. “The old man has gone soft.” 

Silver has never felt weaker in his life. Every time he tries to wrench his mind back to the present he ends up five minutes ago, standing at the top of the galley steps and seeing Jim down below him. _Jim_ — those bright blue eyes gone wide with _shock_ and _dread_ and Silver’s nerves ringing with the truth of it: _he knows._ And he was supposed to have time to prepare, time to let him down easy, time to bring him in to his confidence and let him know what was up ahead. He never wanted to stab the boy in the back. He would have just as soon stabbed himself first. 

But it’s too late. Jim’s horrified eyes— _he was afraid of me_ — and all he can hear is the boy’s sweet murmuring, _Silver, I’m glad it’s you,_ those eyes so full of trust and hope and love and Silver never thought _anyone_ would ever look at him like that and now he knows that Jim will never trust him again. 

_There’s no time for that now._

Now he’s surrounded by a furious crew that has every reason to slit him open from nave to neck and throw his worthless carcass overboard. It’s time to dig deep. Silver kicks away every tender thought he ever had and turns himself into stone. 

Ignoring the pain, he shoves away from the railing to stand on his own two feet, his cybernetic leg sparking and groaning in protest. He can feel the heat building in his right eye socket, the glow turning blood red. All of his teeth are bared in provocation. 

“Ye called me soft once before, Mr. Scroop,” he warns. “I’ll not stand for it a second time.” 

“I’ll call you what I like,” Scroop sneers. “Until you prove otherwise.” 

So that’s what it’s going to take. Silver looks around at his glowering crew and realizes exactly what he needs to do in order to get them back in line. He’ll only have one chance at this. They need to know that their leader is made of iron. They need to know that the man they’re following can take them where he promised. They need to know that Silver is every bit the captain they expected him to be. 

And that’s going to cost blood. 

“A’right, then,” Silver bristles. “Let’s prove it.” 

The mutineers don’t even have time to guess at his meaning before he’s stripping off his coat and throwing his hat down to the deck. Arms up, he clenches his cybernetic hand into a fist and uses the organic fingers to flicker towards Scroop in a gesture of invitation. 

“Come on, ye overgrown insect,” he challenges. “Have out with it.” 

Scroop chuckles uncertainly, glancing about at his fellow crewmen for validation. No one else laughs. Some of them look nervous and some of them look eager, but all of the pirates look ready for this fight. They need an alpha to assert his dominance and Scroop happens to be the best representative they have. Silver’s just lucky that Mr. Hands managed to get himself thrown overboard; that would be a scrap he couldn’t win. Scroop will be tricky enough— he’s got height and speed on his side. Silver is hobbled by his damaged leg, but he’s still got the advantage of both weight and strength. 

It’s going to be close. 

“You carry your weapons in that rig,” Scroop accuses. “Who’s to say you won’t pull a sword on me?” 

“I swear on Flint’s bones that I’ll fight hand to hand,” Silver vows, before turning to jab his finger at Turnbuckle. “And if _you_ see me draw a weapon, you have every right to put me down.” 

Turnbuckle, heretofore silent and unmoving, now gives a decisive nod. Better to not open that offer to the rest of the crew; weapon or not, almost all of them would leap at the chance to shoot him in the back right now. Turnbuckle, at least, Silver trusts to be a man of honor. All that leaves now is the challenger. 

“How about it, Scroop?” Silver taunts. “Do ye think I’m soft enough to be squashed by a bug like you?” 

When Scroop hesitates, Silver knows he’s got him. In all the years they’ve known each other, Silver has never once seen Scroop back down from a fight; he just needs to weigh his options first. He’s doing it now, scoping Silver out from head to toe, his yellow eyes lingering on the puncture wound on the cybernetic leg. If this were an ordinary barroom brawl, Silver might be tempted to exaggerate the injury, trying to lure his opponent into a false sense of superiority. That won’t work here— there’s too much at stake for him to risk showing even the slightest hint of weakness. 

After a long beat of consideration, Scroop’s mouth curves up into a smile. Then he slaps his laser rifle down into Torrance’s waiting hands. 

“Give him hell, Scroop,” Hedley urges. 

“Rip his heart out!” Onus cheers. 

Silver almost laughs. They don’t know that he’s already in hell, that he got there five minutes ago at the top of the galley steps. They don’t know that his heart is already gone, torn out of his chest just last night and placed into the hands of one James Pleiades Hawkins. There’s nothing Scroop can do to him that hasn’t already been done. The worst he can do is draw blood, and Silver’s more than ready for that. 

Now it’s just the two of them, the challenger and the challenged, Silver and Scroop moving out into the center of the deck with the rest of the crew falling into a ring around them. This is the old law, survival of the fittest and to the victor go the spoils. Silver steadies his breathing to ease the pain in his cybernetic leg, trying not to favor it if he can. Every step is a tribulation but he’s just going to have to push through. 

They circle each other slowly. Scroop is trying to find his point of attack. He’s in a difficult position, since Silver’s strongest and weakest side are both the same; the leg may be damaged, but Silver’s greatest asset is still his cybernetic hand. It hasn’t been ten minutes since Silver wrapped that steely grip around Scroop’s neck and threw him bodily across the room. Scroop’s best chance now is to avoid that hand altogether, and he sets the pace of their circling at a grueling clip, forcing Silver to overcompensate with his wounded leg if he wants to keep Scroop from getting behind him. 

“It really was a _wonderful_ speech,” Scroop jeers. “ _Catching some of the light coming off you_ — oh, how poetic. You always were such a charmer.” 

The bastard must have been in the rigging. Silver curses himself for not being more careful. But how could he have ever thought to look up? He only had eyes for Jim last night. Another supernova could have erupted off the port bow and he would have been oblivious. Still, at least he can be thankful that Scroop doesn’t seem to have seen _too_ much; if he had seen them go belowdecks together he would have certainly made a point of saying so by now. He probably scuttled off to safety when they moved back to the stern and Silver made his comment about sending Jim up into the ropes. It’s a small consolation, at least.

“And you always were a spying little sneak,” Silver fires back. “From the first moment ye joined my crew, they all called you Mr. Snoop.”

Scroop chuckles, unfazed by the old nickname. 

“And how could I resist a bit of snooping?” he smirks. “Every man aboard has been dying to know what sort of sweet nothings you’ve been whispering in that boy’s ear.” 

That one hurts. Whether it’s a bluff or not, the mere thought of the whole crew suspecting this particular weakness is enough to drop Silver’s guard. Without thinking he reaches forward in a silencing gesture, a furious stream of denial on his lips— but in the next instant Scroop makes his move, lunging forward across the short distance between them. Silver makes a hasty grab at him with the cybernetic hand but Scroop is ready for it, ducking under the swipe and grabbing him by the wrist with a grip like a pincer. Then the other claw snaps open and makes a sharp dive towards Silver’s throat, intent on tearing it wide open. Silver only just manages to get his free arm up to block it, the claw closing around the meat of his forearm instead. Scroop himself just keeps coming, shoving Silver relentlessly backwards. 

Desperate not to lose any ground, Silver tries to plant his feet and press back against the charge— but his leg can’t hold out and it skitters backwards, the flat base of the peg grinding a rough path across the deck. Still locked on to the cybernetic wrist, Scroop twists it out and down, yanking Silver’s weight over to his right side. Silver can’t contain his howl of agony, the pain exploding in his skull and turning the cheers of the crew into a distant, throbbing echo. 

He’s staggering now, totally off-balance and unable to resist Scroop’s momentum. He just focuses on keeping his feet under him until his back finally slams into the main-mast and he’s pinned, his right arm stretched out to its limit and his left trapped against his own neck, the only thing standing between his jugular vein and the bite of Scroop’s claw. Already the serrated edge is doing its work, cutting through the sleeve and the flesh and sending a stream of blood trickling down to Silver’s elbow. 

Scroop gets his face an inch away from Silver’s, his breath reeking and his eyes gleaming with triumph. 

“You said we’d share _all_ the spoils on this one, John,” he hisses. “I do hope you were planning on sharing your cabin boy. All that sweet talk must have him ripe and ready for the taking.” 

_Son of a bitch._

Blind with fury, Silver rams his head forward and smashes his skull right between Scroop’s lantern-like eyes. Scroop reels back, enough for Silver to rip his left arm away from his neck and swivel his wrist within Scroop’s grip, turning his hand so that it can grab hold of the base of the claw. Using that and Scroop’s own hold on his cybernetic arm, Silver throws his whole weight into the effort of slinging Scroop in a half-circle, bringing him around and bashing him against the side of the main-mast. Scroop has no choice but to let go and scrabble backwards to regain his bearings. 

“So,” he pants. “I hit a nerve, did I?” 

Silver can’t answer him. He can’t let himself think about Jim in the hands of this crew. _Don’t think about it— don’t think about Jim spitting and cursing and refusing to go down without a fight— of course the lad is a fighter— Silver wouldn’t love him if he wasn’t— but there’s too many of them and the boy wouldn’t be able to hold out forever and once they got him down to the floor—_

In a violent spasm Silver clenches his cybernetic hand around his wounded forearm, embracing the pain to anchor himself in the present reality. The sensors in his fingertips assess the damage; nothing too deep, no tendons cut, no veins. _Just a scratch._ He snorts and squares his shoulders in defiance.

“Ye’ll have to hit more than just a nerve if ye want to finish me.” 

The mutineers murmur in approval and Scroop’s eyes go narrow with anger. Then he’s scuttling in low, claws spread wide, aiming a vicious swipe at Silver’s damaged cybernetics. Bloody hell, he’s a fast-moving devil— Silver has to scramble to the left to avoid him. It ends up working in his favor; when Scroop rises up to slash at him, Silver’s weight is already planted on his good leg, and he uses that foundation to swing his left fist up under Scroop’s jaw, hitting him so hard that he can hear Scroop’s teeth crack together on impact. He jerks back to avoid the ensuing wild swings from Scroop’s claws, then knots up his cybernetic hand and delivers a right haymaker that lands like a broadside.

“Come on, then!” he roars as Scroop lurches away from him. “Is that all ye’ve got?”

Scroop’s eyes are practically glowing with rage as he circles Silver, once again searching for an opening. Silver turns with him, feeling younger than he has in years, his blood singing with the thrill of combat. Let them all come. He’s ready. He’ll beat them down one by one if that’s what it takes. He’s come too far to back down. He has to make it matter. _It has to have been worth it._

Scroop feints to the left, then to the right, then left again. Silver pivots to keep up with him, but each turn takes its toll on his damaged leg. He refuses to let that be the obstacle that costs him the fight. When Scroop darts around for his left flank again, Silver overcompensates, turning hard and fast and planting himself where he thinks Scroop will land. 

But the blasted spider has a few tricks yet. As Silver turns, Scroop bolts up against the main-mast and clambers up the length of it— not too high, just high enough to get over Silver’s head before he launches off, jumping clean over the captain and coming down on the deck behind him. Silver doesn’t even have time to turn around before Scroop’s arms are both locked around his neck from behind. 

At any other time, this would be a guaranteed victory for Silver. Scroop’s brought himself close enough to be grabbed by the throat and shaken till dead, and Silver is more than capable of yanking him off like a tick. If Silver was in his prime it would be a fatal flaw; but Silver’s not in his prime, not anymore, and Scroop knows it. Before the cybernetic hand can reach back and lay hold of him, Scroop grabs on tight and pitches himself over to the right, hauling Silver down over his bad leg with such force that his vision erupts with stars. 

_Gods, it’s like losing the thing all over again_ — every muscle in his body and every nerve ending in his brain boils over with agony, the bone-deep knowledge that something has just been _ruined._ The cybernetic limb buckles under the strain, his knee landing hard on the deck. Instead of dislodging his attacker, his right hand ends up braced against the wooden planking, the only thing keeping him from going down all together. Scroop hangs around his neck like a millstone, dragging him inexorably closer to the deck, closer with every breath. 

_If I fall, I’m done._ Silver locks his right elbow and centers his weight over it, every single part of him fighting not to collapse. He’s pawing blindly over his shoulder with his organic hand, hoping his claws might hit an eye or his fingers might close around something he can grab and pull. Scroop dodges every attempt, then tightens his clinch, cutting off Silver’s air entirely.

Already dizzy from the pain, it takes all of Silver’s concentration and energy to keep from blacking out. His vision is beginning to go dark around the edges, his skull ringing with the echo of his own heartbeat, his nails scratching uselessly at the unyielding exoskeleton latched around his neck. _Blast it,_ if he could just manage to stand up again— but Scroop is so heavy and his leg hurts so much and Silver is so, so tired— he’s never been so exhausted, body and soul. He’ll struggle until the end, but it’s starting to look like he might never be able to get back to his feet. 

Then Scroop mutters something against the cybernetic skull plate, his voice dripping with poison. 

“Mark my words, John,” he growls. “When I see that cabin boy again, I’ll make him wish you’d taken that shot.” 

Silver’s blood runs cold. The roar fades to silence and the pain sizzles out like a meteor hitting the atmosphere. 

And then something stirs within him. 

It comes from somewhere deep, deeper than he ever thought his senses could go. At first he doesn’t even know what it is, just that it’s rushing towards him, rising up from his core and expanding with all the force of a dying star until it fills every inch of him with hot white light. 

Then it hits him. 

_You better not quit on me, old man. I’m not done with you yet._

_Well aye-aye, Captain Hawkins, sir._

Silver closes his eyes, clenches his jaw, and pushes up with all his strength. 

Every sensor in his cybernetic leg screams in excruciating protest, every instinct in his body begging him to stop. The pain is a black hole, endless and all-consuming, but Silver grinds right over the warnings. The damn thing has already been destroyed once before, and that was back when it was flesh and blood. He knows he can take it. He isn’t even bleeding to death this time. 

It’s obvious that Scroop was betting everything on using that injury to keep Silver out of action. He’s not strong enough to hold him without that advantage, and when Silver manages to get his knee up and his peg foot down on the deck, they both know that the chokehold is on the verge of being broken. In a last-ditch effort Scroop snaps open one of his claws and tries to slice it down into the space between Silver’s neck and his cybernetic shoulder— but Silver shoves himself up and back and then he’s on his feet and his hands are free. 

The first thing he does is reach behind him and wrap his metal fist around Scroop’s rotten fucking throat. 

Up and over the bastard goes, swung like a hammer and slammed to the deck like he’s being used to drive in a nail. Scroop sprawls there on his back, completely stunned by the speed and force of his comeuppance. 

The crew has gone graveyard quiet. 

Silver’s lungs are throbbing like an overworked furnace, his back and chest drenched in sweat. The pain in his leg has turned into the sort of high-pitched whining that lingers in the ear after standing too close to cannon fire. He’s running on pure adrenaline now; probably has more of that pumping through his veins than blood at this point. All he can see is _red._

“Get up,” he snarls. “Get up, ye worthless prick, we’re not finished.” 

Still reeling, Scroop nonetheless manages to drag himself up to all six feet. _Good_. The worthless prick has some dignity left. That means Silver will have the pleasure of beating it out of him. He pushes his sleeve up to his elbow, purposefully exposing the jagged gash in his forearm before he spreads his hands wide in invitation. 

“What are ye waiting for, boy-o?” he chuckles. “Let’s dance.” 

Gritting his teeth in preparation, Scroop lurches forward to meet him, his claws bunched into a matching set of mallets. He’ll fight till he can’t fight anymore. Again, Silver thinks, _good._ He needs to teach a lesson here and it looks like Scroop is going to oblige him. Silver keeps his hands low, inviting a hit right to the chin. 

Scroop delivers, swinging with his left fist and nailing Silver in the corner of his jaw, forcing him into a quarter turn that displays him to their audience. Silver takes them all in with one scathing glare, swiping the back of his wrist against his bleeding mouth before he pivots back around and slams into Scroop’s face with five metal digits coiled into a perfect wrecking ball. 

Let the lesson begin. 

Relentless, unleashed, Silver bears down on his enemy like an ion storm, delivering two blows with his right fist for every one with his left. His limp doesn’t so much slow him down as set the pace for a slow, inescapable advance. Scroop’s dodging and parrying with everything he’s got— but he’s a lightweight fighter, fit only for skirmishes and no match for a brute like Silver, who’s twice his size and packs twice the force behind every punch. Scroop’s best and only tactic is to fight dirty and take cheap shots, and make no mistake, he’ll keep that up until it’s over. 

Silver’s driving in a hook with his left fist when Scroop answers it with an open pincer. Silver ends up burying his own knuckles into the serrated edge, and he yanks his hand back with a furious bellow, thrown off from the rhythm of his ongoing attack. It’s just enough time for Scroop to slither around him and rip his claws into Silver’s back, hard and fast enough to draw blood. Silver whirls around to grab at him. When his sensors detect something within reach, he locks down with his cybernetic fingers.

It’s Scroop’s leg. Scroop tries to pry him off, but this time it’s his exoskeleton scratching uselessly at the unyielding metal, and when Silver pulls hard he goes down for the second time. This time Silver keeps him there, swinging his bad leg up and over so that he comes down in a straddle over Scroop’s supine form, pinning him against the deck with his weight.

By anyone’s standards, the fight should be over. This was about proving a point, and now it’s ended with an undisputed victor. Silver has demonstrated not only his physical strength and endurance, but also the indomitable, single-minded willpower that made him the captain of this crew in the first place. He should take a step back and let the dogs come crawling back to their master’s feet, tails wagging and tongues swearing loyalty. They’re all ready to do it, he can sense it, can see them practically leaning forward as they wait for the signal. 

But Silver’s not about to let this bastard get off so easy. 

Not because Scroop challenged his authority. Not because Scroop just sliced him open in half a dozen places. Not even because Scroop was spying on him the night before. 

But because Scroop was the one who made him say it. 

_Nose-wiping little whelp._

The ache goes right down to his marrow. 

_I’m sorry, Jimbo._ It hurts to even think his name. _For all of it. For everything._

And may the gods have mercy on Mr. Scroop, because John Silver most assuredly will not.

The first blow lands like a jackhammer, smashing into Scroop’s face and cracking his skull so hard against the deck that there’s an answering chorus of gasps and groans from the gallery. The second blow lands with just as much force. So does the third. Silver is using his cybernetic arm. He could hit him all day. 

Scroop struggles, of course. Silver can feel all six of those spidery legs scrabbling and flailing underneath him, pelting his back and sides with a series of futile kicks. He pays them no mind. The pincers are a bit more trouble, but not enough to make a difference. When the right claw swings close enough, Silver grabs it with his organic hand, holding it at bay. Now all Scroop has to go on is his left claw, and he frantically tries a new tactic after every blow from Silver’s merciless right hand. 

_Wham._ Scroop slashes in vain at the metal arm. _Wham._ Scroop fumbles the serrated edge of his claw against Silver’s left forearm. _Wham._ Scroop pounds his fist against Silver’s chest. _Wham._ Scroop swipes a cut into Silver’s belly. _Wham._ Scroop leans up and lands a punch that bloodies Silver’s nose.

_Wham. Wham. Wham._

The last wallop sends a tooth flying out of Scroop’s mouth and skittering across the deck. It rolls to a stop in a small red puddle. Silver pauses with his fist raised in mid-air. 

Scroop has stopped fighting. In fact he looks half-dead, his eyes glazed over and his mouth streaming blood. His left pincer lies on his chest where it fell, while the right one has gone limp and heavy in Silver’s grasp. Silver drops it with a thud. Every breath is like a fire in his throat. He feels even worse than he did before. 

_Steady on, now. Ye can’t kill him or they’ll riot all over again._

Sneering in disgust, he hauls himself up off Scroop’s battered body, putting a safe amount of distance between them. Gods, that _leg_ — Silver had almost forgotten about it, and the pain takes him off guard. He doubles over with a hand clapped reflexively against the damaged limb, his jaw locked against the urge to cry out. Deep breaths. _Steady._

Slowly, grimly, he rises back to his full height, unfurling his body like a flag and displaying every last inch of himself to his dumbfounded crew. He stands there before them and lets them take a good long _look,_ lets them gaze upon the beast they have evoked, the monster that they begged to be shown. Silver knows he looks like he’s just ripped his way through hell itself, his body riddled with wounds, blood trickling from his nose and mouth and oozing from the gashes on his arm and back and belly. There’s even a faint wisp of smoke trailing out of his cybernetic leg, the gears still hissing and burning from the strain. 

He’s just grateful that Jim isn’t here to see him like this. 

When the weight of the silence becomes suffocating, he breaks it with a roar. 

“Who else?” His red, red eye carves a trail across each and every shocked face. “Who else wants to tell me that I’ve gone soft? _Who else?_ ”

No takers. Hedley is huddled down on Torrance’s shoulders, Onus is nothing but a knot of goggled eyes, and Birdbrain Mary is hiding behind Grewnge’s leg. Silver waits for an answer, breathing hard, remorseless. Down on the deck, Scroop gives a pathetic, wet cough. Then Turnbuckle steps forward, trying not to smile, on the verge of bursting with satisfied respect. 

“Captain Silver, sir!” he proclaims, snapping his right pair of tentacles up for a salute. 

There’s a scramble from the others to echo the gesture, every one of them striving to appear obedient and reverential. The red starts to fade from Silver’s eye, his gaze turning golden and aloof once more. He nods magnanimously in acknowledgement of their display. 

“Sir!” Turnbuckle barks. “Your orders, sir?”

Silver bares his teeth in a savage grin, a hollow display of bravado that gets all of the mutineers grinning back at him. 

“Prepare the longboat, ye maggots! We’re going down after ‘em!” 

Then he turns back to look at the crumpled remnants of Mr. Scroop, who has rolled onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow, his senses gradually returning, his eyes recovering their focus bit by bit. He’s going to live. Silver towers over him, radiating equal parts rage and triumph. 

“And as fer you, ye feeble sack of shit— ye’re going to have the pleasure of staying behind to watch the ship.”

Scroop stares up at him, his gaze going wide in dismay. Silver’s smile widens in response, a smile so vicious and cruel that Scroop cowers away as Silver stoops down to be eye to eye with him.

“Mark my words, Mr. Scroop,” Silver growls. “So long as I’m the captain of this ship, you will never set foot on the surface of Treasure Planet.” 

He pulls back upright and draws in a heavy snort, filling his mouth with blood and sputum and then spitting the whole awful mess into Scroop’s face. Scroop flinches, too humiliated to utter even a word of protest. Perfect. Silver intends to make his life a living hell until the moment they go their separate ways. 

In the meantime he’s an absolute wreck. His shirt needs changing and his face needs scrubbing and above all he needs to get away from all these wretched ingrates for just one blessed moment or he’s going to lose his mind. Scooping up his jacket and hat from the deck, Silver gestures loosely at the crew members still lingering nearby, putting on a mocking genteel air as he does so. 

“I do believe I’ll be freshening up before we take our little outing,” he says. “Oh, and gents?” His tone becomes deadly serious. “If that longboat ain’t ready by the time I get back, ye won’t like what happens next.” 

He keeps the imperious scowl on his face until he makes it all the way down to his cabin and closes the door behind him. 

Then it all collapses into a miserable grimace. 

Everything aches, from his skull to his feet to his fingertips. His organic limbs are exhausted and his cybernetic ones are either damaged or overworked; his right arm feels like it weighs a ton. As gingerly as he can, Silver peels off his ruined shirt and drops it into a heap on the floor. He uses his left hand to massage the spread of scar tissue around his right shoulder. It helps. 

That left forearm is a nasty bit of business. Silver empties the water pitcher into his wash basin, then grabs the nearest towel and soaks it through so he can mop up the worst of the blood. Since the old shirt is ruined anyway, it only makes sense to tear strips of it for wrapping; Silver switches his cybernetic hand to a series of little pincers to bind the wounds and tie the bandages off, neat as you please. Then he splashes his face with water until the grit of dried blood has all been washed away. 

The other cuts are too cumbersome to be bandaged. He cleans off the one across his belly, but the slashes on his back are out of reach. That’s all right. What’s a few more scars, after all— that particular canvas is already striped from the floggings he used to receive from his first captain, a grizzled old space dog who had no kind of patience for an impudent little hooligan such as himself. 

This is all a distraction. _Don’t think about it._ Think about the wounds, think about the fury, think about the blood. _Don’t think about it._ Think about Treasure Planet, right off the bow at last, only a skiff-ride away. _Don’t think about it._ Think about putting on a fresh shirt and covering up the bandages and testing out the implements on the cybernetic arm until a suitable crutch can be found. 

Silver is almost feeling like himself again. He’s almost ready. 

Then he picks up his jacket and it nearly brings him to his knees. 

_“Here,” Jim says. “You left this in the galley last night.”_

_He’s holding out Silver’s jacket. Silver freezes. He doesn’t know how to explain himself. He doesn’t even know why he did it in the first place. He only knows that he saw Jim sleeping there and he was so **overwhelmed** with something that he had to **do** something and the only thing that made sense was to strip the jacket off his own back and tuck it around Jim’s instead. Now he feels like a sentimental old fool and he doesn’t know what to do except deny it._

_“Did I?” Silver cocks his head, feigning confusion. “What a daft thing to do.”_

_And at first he’s afraid that Jim will be hurt, that he’ll be disappointed, or that he’ll argue with him until he forces Silver to confess what he’s done. Instead of all that, Jim just grins._

_“You’re getting forgetful, old man.” He pops a gentle fist against Silver’s stomach. “Better watch yourself.”_

_They both know what happened, but they’re not going to say anything. They don’t need to. They’re just going to keep it a secret between them, forever unspoken but somehow understood._

_And when the lad goes up to swab the deck, Silver grabs that jacket and brings it up to his nose for a deep inhale. It smells so much like Jim that Silver knows he must have spent the whole night with it wrapped around him._

Walking back out through the galley is harder than he ever thought a walk could be. He has to keep his eyes straight ahead or else his gaze might wander over to that dark, hidden corner, that place where a part of himself was forever lost, never to be recovered. _Silver,_ the boy had murmured, touching his face. _I’m glad it’s you._ And Silver had known even then, had said it out loud so that both of them could hear it— _I don’t deserve ye, lad_ — but neither of them had heeded the warning. 

The view from the main deck is stunning. There it is down below, after a lifetime of searching— Treasure Planet, at last. Silver clings to the sight of it, to the memory of how badly he wants it, to the promise that soon his pain will be soothed until he forgets it altogether. He’s coming to terms with the ugliest truth he’s ever known. 

_You’ll never hold that boy again._

“Longboat is prepared, Captain.” 

Silver turns away from the railing and heads down to the launch bay. His treasure awaits. 

_After all, ye said it yerself: you give up a few things, chasing a dream._

 

 

 

___________end.


End file.
